


You’re My Best Friend: Brian

by oiuytrewq36



Series: Soundtrack Trilogy, combined and expanded [11]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36
Summary: New York is chilly and gray when my cab pulls up to Justin’s building. He likes moody weather like this, the lighting it gives him for painting, but right now I’m not surprised he’s in a shitty mood.I knock three times, hoping he’s awake, and a minute or so later Justin opens the door, sees me, and freezes. He’s wrapped up and hunched over in a too-big sweatshirt that I think might be mine, and his eyes are red and his hair is all over the place, and this really must be love because I swear he’s never been more gorgeous.
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Series: Soundtrack Trilogy, combined and expanded [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077905
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	You’re My Best Friend: Brian

My Saturdays are much less exciting than they used to be. Gone are the days of weekly orgies and invitation-only parties and three-day benders; age and owning a company do that to you, turns out. The worst part is that I don’t really mind it. I’ll hit the occasional private party, obviously, or go out with the guys, and the condom bowl on the bedside table remains stocked as always, but more and more I find that I really just want to stay in, eat actual food, and catch up on work or go to Deb’s or talk to Justin.

“Hey,” I say, when he picks up. Afternoon call today. I try to time them around his work schedule, but it’s been harder lately with the crazy shifts the coffee shop’s been giving him. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he says. It’s a bad sign; Justin always has something to talk about unless things aren’t going well.

“The big city treating you okay?”

“Same as always,” Justin says. Hmmm.

I walk over to the couch and lie down, listening to him breathing over the line. “You sound a little weird. Everything going okay?”

He sighs. “I have a cold, that’s all.”

“That’s all?”

There’s a long silence. “Frances is gone for the week.”

“Oh.” Absolutely no clue what I’m supposed to say here, in case you couldn’t tell. “How’s flying solo going?”

“I-” Justin says. “I’ve never been sick alone before, and I got rejected from that gallery job on the Upper East Side, and I haven’t painted anything worthwhile in weeks, and I think I hate it here.”

“Hey,” I say - there’s a fuckton of stuff to unpack there, not even including the fact that Justin _loves_ New York, he was fucking _made_ for it and I see it every time I visit him there, but one step at a time - “You didn’t get the gallery job? When did they happen?”

He sniffs. “Two days ago.”

“And you didn’t mention it?”

“I figured you were busy.”

“Sunshine,” I say, because what the fuck am I supposed to tell him? I was busy, fine, but he knows that I would drop anything and everything if he needed to talk. “You really don’t seem okay.”

“No shit,” Justin says. “Thanks for the insight.”

I rub the space over my nose with the heel of my hand, trying to think of what I can do. “Want to just- hang out and talk for a while? You can tell me everything, I’ll just listen, okay? It’ll be-”

“Thanks,” he says. “But I think I’m just going to try and sleep until the painkillers wear off.”

So, obviously, the second he hangs up I’m buying a ticket on the soonest flight I can get. Cynthia gives me shit for taking a few days off with essentially no notice until I tell her it’s for Justin, and then she just tells me to go pack my damn overnight bag before I miss my flight.

New York is chilly and gray when my cab pulls up to Justin’s building. He likes moody weather like this, the lighting it gives him for painting, but right now I’m not surprised he’s in a shitty mood.

I knock three times, hoping he’s awake, and a minute or so later Justin opens the door, sees me, and freezes. He’s wrapped up and hunched over in a too-big sweatshirt that I think might be mine, and his eyes are red and his hair is all over the place, and this really must be love because I swear he’s never been more gorgeous.

He stares at me.

I raise my eyebrows.

“You fucking-” he says, and then he’s in my arms, pressing his face against my neck until we’re fused. I just take deep long breaths of him and rub his shivering shoulders - he might be crying, I’m not sure - until he starts to breathe normally again.

Justin steps back and looks at me. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says. “You have work, and I’ll get you sick, and-”

I cross the threshold and close the door behind me. “I have plenty of vacation time to blow. And I don’t get sick.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s looking at me from under the hood of the sweatshirt with just a little bit of- I don’t know, exasperation? Adoration? Hope? It’s something frighteningly personal and tender that makes me want to lock us in this shitty small apartment and never leave so I can keep him safe and warm and happy, protect him from the world, anyway.

I take his hand and tug him back up against me. He huffs, but then he smiles and pushes his cheek against my collarbone. I stroke his hair and walk us over to the sofa.

“Want anything?” I say. “Food, drink, drugs?”

He shakes his head.

“I did research where to find the best chicken soup in New York, you know,” I tell him, and he laughs.

“Deli on 33rd, right?” he says. “Matzo ball and chicken.”

I look at him. “Guess you really are a real New Yorker now.”

He laughs again, a little soft this time. “Guess so.”

“I can’t believe you flew here on a moment’s notice because I was _sad_ ,” he tells me, curling up tighter on the cushions.

I find a blanket folded in the shelf behind the couch and smooth it over him. “Well, I hope at least you feel better, otherwise I’ve just wasted a shit ton of time and money.”

He chuckles quietly and kisses my cheek. “Thank you. For not listening to my bullshit.”

I gather him into my arms as best I can and pull him right up close so our bodies are touching from shoulder to knee. “You get to have a bullshit day or three once in a while, Sunshine. I’ll be here to catch you, you know that.”

Justin closes his eyes and presses our faces together. “God, I love you,” he murmurs, before settling down against me, a solid warm familiar mass on my side.

It doesn’t take him long to drift off against my shoulder, and I hold him as he sleeps, face settling into calmness for the first time since I’ve been been here.

***

I’m working on my laptop when he wakes, coughing. I rub his back and get up to get him water. He’s curled into a miserable little ball on the sofa when I get back, so I just stroke his side and press little kisses to his temple until he unwinds a little.

“You’re being too nice to me,” he says, when he’s finally sitting up. I flip him off, and he laughs, a little hoarsely, maybe, but genuine. “Fuck. I feel like shit.”

“Sure you don’t want me to order you some soup?” I say. I’d offer to cook, but-”

“-I really don’t need food poisoning as well,” he says, grinning. I stick out my tongue at him. He bumps my nose with his and leans against my shoulder again.

“Can you get it delivered?” he says. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

I run a hand through his hair and kiss the top of his head. “’Course. Want anything else?”

He shrugs. “Ginger ale? And you need to eat too, when’s the last time you-”

I shush him, but gently. “Let me take care of you, just right now, okay? I promise to take care of myself too, so don’t worry.”

Justin nods, eyes already dropping closed again. “Okay,” he mumbles, and then he’s out. I lay him down as gently as I can across the sofa and tuck the blankets in around him, then place an order from the deli for soup and ginger ale and a chicken salad sandwich, because the promises I make to him are the ones I keep, and I do a little more work while the windows darken and he sleeps.

The food arrives just as he’s starting to stir. I pour the soup into an actual bowl so he doesn’t have to mess with the shitty cardboard container and give it thirty seconds in the microwave to warm up.

I hear a weak chuckle from the sofa. “You gonna open the can for me too?” Justin says. I actually make a move towards it before realizing that he’s being sarcastic. He snickers.

“I could get used to this,” he says, stretching out his arms above his head. “Having you around as a kept boy.”

I help him off the sofa and start leading him to the kitchen table. “Someday, Sunshine,” I tell him. “Someday.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my new [Agatha Christie AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28751967/chapters/70501440)!


End file.
